


you are where i wanna stay

by figure8



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - The Proposal Fusion, Angst and Humor, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 03:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6036799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You're being deported."</i>
  <br/>
  <i>"That's ridiculous," Bruce says coolly. "They can't kick me out of the country, I'm Bruce Wayne."</i>
</p><p>--</p><p>Or the one where the Waynes immigrated from England and never got the time to ask for citizenship before they died. Years later, Bruce finds himself in a complicated position, and the only way out he sees is to blackmail his assistant into marrying him.<br/>Unsurprisingly, it's a disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are where i wanna stay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [remux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remux/gifts).



> a few days ago, i discovered that one of my friends had never watched the proposal, so i sat them down and we watched it together. we spent more time pausing it and yelling SUPERBAT!!! animatedly at each other than actually watching the movie, so obviously i had to write this.  
> i tried keeping them as batman and supes for a while, only it ended up being Too Much. so here we are, with a no powers au. it's cut in 3 parts because it was getting really long for a one-shoot but don't worry about updates, this thing pretty much writes itself.  
> speaking of updates!! the new fosterverse chapter should be up soon.  
> if some things don't quite make sense yet, please bear with me! both bruce and clark are not only very unreliable narrators, but there's also a _lot_ of things they don't know about each other and they keep extrapolating, not always successfully.  
>  like in the movie, i realize the whole premise is extremely unrealistic, but eh. it's a fake marriage au, guys. 
> 
> a GIGANTIC thank you to hummy for the beta. i would never have made it without you.  
> i hope y'all enjoy this <3 
> 
> title from turn me on by the fray.

Clark Kent truly, deeply, _aggressively_ hates Bruce Wayne.

Clark hasn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in _actual months_ , and that’s a hundred percent Wayne’s fault. He yawns unconsciously as he exits the metro, puts a hand in front of his mouth at the last second when he realizes. God, if his Ma was here… But Ma _isn’t_ here, and really, it’s for the best. Because _here_? Is Gotham City. The worst of the worst. The grittiest, dirtiest place on earth, probably. It constantly smells and it’s always humid and cold and dark, like the sun takes a detour and never dares touch Gotham on its way around the planet. Clark wouldn’t blame it. He understands the compulsive need to run away from this place. He _would_ run away if he had literally any other choice. Which he doesn’t. And that, too, is Bruce Wayne’s fault.

Like every morning for the past year, he pushes the door of Uptown Café and makes his way through the enormous line forming in front of the counter, distributing hushed apologies as he accidentally elbows an elderly lady and almost steps on a small child. He reaches the counter panting slightly, wearing a nervous smile.

“You’re late,” his favorite barista says accusingly in lieu of greetings, handing him two to-go cups.

“You’re an angel, Julie,” Clark beams at her gratefully, taking the drinks. Even through the paper sleeve, they’re burning against his palms.

She rolls her eyes. “Run. Or he’s going to murder you, and I’ll have no one to make fun of in the mornings. This job gets dull, you know?”

“I’m sure,” Clark chuckles.

“Shoo,” she pushes his shoulder.

Out in the street again, Clark checks his watch. 7:58, God _damnit_. He considers for a second taking one of the community-shared bicycles, but he’s in the middle of the busiest boulevard in Gotham and it’s incredibly crowded, and there is no way that would end well. Good old-fashioned running it is.

He makes it to his floor at exactly 8:07, which is truly a miracle in itself. Okay, maybe he ignored a few red lights. It’s not like he hasn’t done that a million times before.

“Cutting it close,” one of the receptionists snickers when he jogs past the big desk in the hall.

“It’s one of those days,” Clark mutters. No one tells him he’s been having _those days_ for about twelve months now, but he can hear it in his own voice at the back of his head, so really, it’s just as terrible. Maybe worse. _You’re becoming self-aware_ , Lois would have teased. Clark misses Lois.

He only lets his mind wander off to Metropolis for a _split-second_ , but it’s enough for him not to notice the mail cart rolling towards him. He smacks right into it, his left arm taking most of the impact. The lid of the cup in his left hand just _jumps_ up as he clenches it into a fist by reflex, and suddenly he has steaming coffee dripping down his forearm, a giant brownish stain on his white dress shirt.

“Sorry,” the cart roller says, and Clark just stares at him, dumbfounded.

He’s contemplating suicide when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He doesn’t have to get it out to check—he knows what the message will say. There’s an odd camaraderie between everyone who works in close proximity to Bruce Wayne: they’ve all understood very quickly that their only advantage is strength in numbers. Every time Wayne’s on the move, someone texts the group chat. The necessity of this measure has been made clear on the day Jeremy from Accounting forgot his phone at home and thus didn’t get the message informing him of Wayne’s impending descent to his office. Clark doesn’t know what exactly Jeremy was doing, but they got a new chief accountant two days later, so he guesses it was probably something to do with porn. It’s almost always porn.

The elevator chimes cheerfully and its doors slide open, and sure enough, there he is. Bruce Wayne in all his glory, hair slicked back and anthracite Armani suit, unnervingly perfect from his killer smile to his shiny shoes. Clark doesn’t hold his breath. He used to, in the beginning; but he hasn’t been scared of Wayne in a while now. There’s only so many times you can watch a man pass out on his desk and drool on important papers before you stop feeling intimidated by him.

“Good morning, Mr. Wayne,” Clark welcomes him placidly, handing him the coffee that survived the earlier disaster. “You have a conference call in exactly twenty-seven minutes.”

“I am aware,” Wayne glares, which is ridiculous, because Clark is just trying to do his damn job. Scurrying down the corridor so he can match Wayne’s pace, he continues.

“You have a meeting with Mr. Fox at nine, and the board meeting has been moved to eleven like you asked.”

“Did you call—what’s her name? The redhead?”

“Miss Vale?” Sometimes Clark wonders if Wayne does it on purpose. How can a man who built a press empire forget names and faces so easily? “Absolutely.”

“And?”

“She said she doesn’t do freelance,” Clark shrugs.

Wayne makes an affronted face. “We’re not offering her _freelance_ ,” he spits out the word like it’s an insult. “This is Wayne Publishing, for Christ’s sake.”

“I think she meant she’s not leaving the Gazette, and she won’t work for us on the side.”

“Misplaced loyalty is infuriating,” Wayne grits. Clark thinks about arguing it’s not exactly about loyalty but more about feeling _comfortable_ somewhere and not wanting to leave that place, but he figures he can’t really say anything. After all, he _did_ accept the transfer from the Daily Planet.

“Your immigration lawyer called,” he informs his boss instead.

“What does he want again?” Wayne asks as he settles into his leather chair, taking a sip of his coffee.

“He said it was _imperative_ —”

Wayne cuts him off, holding up a hand haltingly. “I don’t care, I do _not_ have time for these inanities right now. Call him back, arrange a meeting for tomorrow evening. After five, I have a thing at Damian’s school from three to four.”

“I know,” Clark sighs, “I put it on your Google Calendar.”

Wayne grunts non-committedly. “Call PR, they need to start drafting a press release.”

Clark raises his head from the stack of papers he was rearranging. “What for?”

“I’m buying the Gotham Gazette,” Wayne says nonchalantly, as if that’s the most normal thing in the world.

Clark squeezes his eyes shut and prays the Lord to grant him some strength. “You can’t possibly want Vicki Vale _that_ bad,” he groans.

“This has nothing to do with Miss Vale,” Wayne smiles innocently. “I’ve had my eyes on the Gazette for quite some time now, which is how I _know_ it’s a done deal, which is _why_ I asked you to alert our PR team. Now, do you want to challenge my authority some more, or are you ready to do your job?” Clark shakes his head, hoping it will make the icy feeling in his spine dissipate. Wayne drinks from his coffee again, and then he frowns. “Who is,” he slants his eyes, obviously trying to read something off the cup, “ _Jules_?” he inquires. “And why does she want me to call her?” He turns the cup around and pushes it towards Clark. Sure enough, Julie wrote her number alongside a flirty _call me!_ in her messy handwriting, with two hearts after the exclamation point.

“Well,” Clark shifts uneasily, “This might have been my cup. Initially.”

Wayne raises a very skeptical eyebrow. “You drink unsweetened cinnamon soy lattes,” he says, his tone flat.

Clark offers him his best salesman’s smile. “It’s like Christmas in a cup?”

“Of course, what was I thinking. And why exactly, pray tell, am I drinking your coffee?”

“Err,” Clark says. Wonderful, really. No wonder he’s still stuck playing personal assistant, if he can’t even talk his way out of an embarrassment. “Yours spilled,” he explains finally, choosing to go with honesty. It’s all he has left, and after all, his Ma _did_ raise him right. “I want to make absolutely clear that I do not drink the same coffee _you_ drink just in case it spills,” he hears himself say. So much for honesty. “That would be pathetic,” he adds, because apparently he just _can’t shut the fuck up_.

Wayne seems ready to tell him how _pathetic_ exactly he thinks Clark is when his office phone rings. Saved by the bell.

He picks it up. “Mr. Wayne’s office?”

_“Yo, Clark, my man. You good? Can I speak to him?”_

It takes all of Clark’s willpower to not just facepalm right there. He’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“It’s your son,” he mouths to Wayne, his palm on the receiver.

“Which one?” Clark holds one finger up. Wayne sighs. “Give me the phone.”

It’s impressive, how small details can change _everything_ about a person. Wayne’s lips, usually a tense thin line, stretch into a genuine warm smile as he starts talking softly into the phone. His shoulders sag a little, he pushes away from the desk so he can lean back against his chair. Clark can’t make out the conversation because they’re not speaking in English—it’s Romani, his brain supplies—but there’s clear and unguarded affection and concern pouring from Wayne’s voice. Suddenly he looks human. He looks real.

There’s a knock on the door, effectively taking Clark out of his thoughts. Wayne glowers at him while still talking to Dick until he takes the hint and half-opens the door to check who’s on the other side.

He immediately recoils and starts making panicked hand gestures at Wayne. “It’s _Lucius Fox_ ,” he hisses, low.

“Richard,” Wayne says calmly, “I’m going to have to call you back.” He hangs up the phone and shoots Clark an intent look. “Why are you scared of Lucius?”

“He looks unhappy,” Clark shudders. “The last time he looked unhappy, you fired twelve people.”

Wayne snorts, exasperated. “That had nothing to do with Lucius. For the love of God, tell him to come in.”

Clark opens the door wide, and Fox comes in, staring at him oddly. Clark has a problem with authority figures, okay? They make him jittery.

“Bruce,” he says, and Wayne nods in acknowledgment, “May I have a word?”

“You may.”

Fox frowns. “In private?”

“Kent,” Wayne sighs, “Go make that phone call to PR.”

Clark leaves dutifully and goes to sit at his cubicle. He’s fairly certain Wayne doesn’t know, but the wall between his office and Clark’s workspace is thin enough that if Clark focuses, he can make out Wayne’s voice, isolate it from the rest the noise around him. He probably shouldn’t be doing this, but having one up on his boss once every blue moon is his only advantage in this hellhole.

“What do you mean?” he’s saying, his voice a little strained. He’s obviously distressed, something that doesn’t happen often.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Fox replies. “I told you to get the paperwork fixed and you didn’t, so now you’re two feet deep in shit.”

“I’ll file them again, Jesus, no need to get so dramatic.”

“Bruce,” Fox says, and he sounds awfully serious, “Your demand for naturalization has been denied.”

Wayne’s starts coughing heavily at that, and for a second Clark is genuinely concerned for his health. “What?”

“And your green card expired last month.”

“What,” Wayne repeats, but this time it sounds way too dead to be a question.

“You’re being deported.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Wayne says coolly. “They can’t kick me out of the country, I’m Bruce Wayne.”

After a year working under him, Clark can picture the scene easily. Wayne’s good at keeping his tone even, but there are telltales about what he’s _really_ feeling one gets to figure out pretty quick when existing in close proximity to him. His fingers are probably twitching on the arm if his chair. He’s probably looking away, avoiding Fox’s gaze.

“Being Bruce Wayne doesn’t make you American,” Fox tells him severely.

Clark doesn’t get to hear what Wayne replies to _that_ , because the phone on his desk starts ringing and he spends the next five minutes trying to explain to Tim, Wayne’s second son and also director of their IT department because nepotism is real and it’s dangerous, that his father slash boss really can’t talk to him right now. It doesn’t work. Tim refuses to hang up. Clark truly hates this entire family.

He walks up to Wayne’s office again, hesitates ten seconds and then decides to knock and poke his head in, hoping his apologetic expression will save him from getting a paperweight thrown at his face.

“Mr. Wayne, I am so sorry, but Tim is on the line—”

“I’m busy,” Wayne grunts. He’s moved up from his chair, is now standing in front of his desk, facing Lucius.

“I know, I told him, but he’s insisting? He says it is, and I quote, _super urgent_.”

Wayne opens his mouth to say something, but then no sound comes out and something flickers in his eyes. Clark can almost _hear_ the gears turning inside his mind. Wayne shoots him a significant look and clears his throat before _shuffling towards him_. For an instant Clark absurdly thinks Wayne is going to _punch him_ , but no; he grabs Clark’s arm and tugs him inside the room instead, pushing the door with the tip of his shoe so it can close. He doesn’t let go of Clark when they’re back at the center of the room, which is, well. Weird.

“Well,” Wayne says, his voice uncharacteristically high, “We wanted to keep this a secret, but I guess there’s no other choice.”

“What?” Clark asks, a little lost.

Fox just arcs an eyebrow and stares at them blankly.

“We’re getting married,” Wayne announces, smiling outlandishly like someone who’s never used these particular muscles in their face in their entire life and is trying to figure it out for the first time.

“Who?” Clark croaks.

Wayne shakes Clark’s arm a little, his fingers digging into Clark’s bicep probably hard enough to leave a mark. “You and me. Me and you. Yes. We’re—we are getting married.”

“Oh,” Clark stammers, and it comes out a little more raspy than what he intended. His brain is still trying to process the information. “Of course,” he says, because if there’s one thing his atrocious year at Wayne Publishing has taught him, it’s _shoot first, ask questions later_.

Fox is still staring. Clark wonders if the man has some kind of superpower that allows him not to blink for an extended period of time. It wouldn’t be that strange. He’s seen stranger in this building. “You’re marrying your secretary,” he narrows his eyes.

“Assistant,” Clark corrects. Wayne _has_ a secretary, and she certainly has prettier legs than Clark. Also, Wayne definitely doesn’t yell at her as much as he yells at Clark.

“Assistant,” Fox repeats. “You’re marrying your _male_ assistant.”

“Same-sex marriage is legal in all fifty states, Lucius,” Wayne says coldly.

“Oh, I know,” Fox says. “You never showed any inclination—”

“Contrary to popular belief,” Wayne cuts him off, “It is not something that is written on people’s face.”

“You had a wife and a kid,” Fox insists. “Bruce, I really don’t think—”

“I’m divorced, so clearly _something_ wasn’t working out.” He pulls Clark even closer, his hand leaving Clark’s arm to settle on the small of his back. “The truth is, Clark and I…” And Clark is surprised Wayne even _knows_ his first name, “We’re just too people who weren’t meant to fall in love, but did.”

“No,” Clark hears himself say. His brain has finally caught up.

“All those late nights at the office,” Wayne drawls.

“No,” Clark says again.

“Something just… happened, between us.”

“Yeah,” Clark chokes out. “ _Something_.”

“What is it that you always say?” Wayne asks rhetorically, an exaggerated thinking expression on his face. “Oh, yeah. Can’t fight love, right?”

Fox closes his eyes and sighs. It’s a long sigh. Clark feels sympathetic. “Just make it legal.”

“We’ll head down to the Immigration office as soon as we get the chance,” Wayne leers. “Right, babe?”

The hand on Clark’s back taps him lightly when he doesn’t reply. “What? Oh, yeah. Absolutely. Immigration.”

Fox looks at them like a man watching a car crash in slow motion, fully aware that something awful is about to happen and that he is in no power to stop it. “Well,” he starts, grabbing a folder on Wayne’s desk, “I’m going to let you—discuss things. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you,” Clark says mechanically.

“Thank you, Lucius,” Wayne says, his voice a little strained.

He closes the door behind him and Clark just lets himself fall into a chair.

 

\--

 

Kent takes a deep breath, staring into the void. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. “I can’t afford to lose a year fighting the US government in court, even if I know I’m going to win.”

“So naturally the _logical_ course of action would be for me to—marry you?”

“What,” Bruce jeers, “You’re saving yourself for someone special?”

Kent glares at him. “I’d like to think so, yeah. Also, it’s _illegal_.”

“Please,” Bruce snorts.

“Mr. Wayne,” Kent persists. “I’m not going to marry you.”

“Yes, you are,” Bruce says harshly. He winces internally at how shitty of a thing what he’s doing right now is, but soothes the discomfort by telling himself he’s not doing it for _himself_. If they send him back to England, Damian will have to go back to live with his mother. He didn’t fight that hellish custody battle for his son to be taken away from him again like this. “Because if you don’t,” he continues, “I will get rid of the Daily Planet.”

He’s bluffing, obviously. He would never actually put so many people’s livelihood in jeopardy, not even for Damian. But Kent doesn’t know that. Kent knows _Bruce Wayne_ , Torturer of Young Journalists extraordinaire. Kent _absolutely_ believes Bruce will fire all his friends and destroy Metropolis’ best newspaper. Bruce can see it in his eyes. The flash of burning _hatred_ in Kent blue irises almost makes him flinch, it’s that strong.

“You utter piece of—,” Kent grits out, jaw clenching.

“I know, I know,” Bruce hums. “I’m a terrible person. But don’t worry, after the required time allotment, we’ll get a nice divorce and you’ll be done with me. _Until_ then, your wagon,” he points at Kent, pokes him in the chest, “is hitched to mine. Any further questions?”

“Yes,” Kent says, his hands clamped over the arms of the chair, knuckles gone almost white. “How do you even sleep at night?”

“On silk sheets,” Bruce deadpans. “Rolling naked in money.”

 

\--

 

Sitting in front of a government agent in a tiny office at the USCIS, Kent looks like he’s going to faint any moment now.

“Let’s get one thing out of the way,” the man on the other side of the desk says, not bothering to raise his head from the paperwork he’s currently inspecting. The nametag on the table says _A. SMITH_. Bruce wonders fleetingly if his first name is Agent, which makes him chuckle, which makes Smith shoot him a death glare. “Are you both committing fraud to avoid his deportation?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Kent exclaims, the look of affronted surprise on his face not half as bad as Bruce would have thought.

“We had a phone tip this morning,” Smith says calmly, finally setting the stack of papers in his hands down.

“Let me guess,” Bruce drawls. “Metropolis area code.”

Smith’s eyes widen. “How—?”

“A disgruntled business rival who wants to take me down, I am afraid,” Bruce says, adorning his sentence with his best charming smile. “The news flew awfully fast, don’t you think, darling?” he turns to Kent. “We need to invest more in countering corporate espionage.”

Kent looks completely lost. His acting skills apparently do not extend to improvisation. “We—we do.”

“Now,” Bruce continues, “We know you’re very busy, and we appreciate you seeing us on such short notice. You can just give us the necessary forms and we’ll be on our way.”

“Tsk tsk,” Smith shakes his head. “Mr. Wayne. Let me explain to you the process that’s about to unfold. The first thing that’s going to happen is that we’re going to schedule an interview where I put each of you in a room and ask you questions _real_ couples know about each other. Step two: I dig deeper. I look at your phone records. I talk to your neighbors. I talk to your friends, to your coworkers. I’ll look through your _trash_ if I have to. If something doesn’t add up at _any_ point, you,” he nods towards Bruce, “will be deported indefinitely with no possibility of appeal. And _you_ , Mr. Kent, will have committed a felony punishable by a 250,000 dollars fine _and_ a five year stay in federal prison.”

Bruce shoots a sideways glance to Kent. He’s getting paler by the minute, his shoulders so tense they’re trembling a little. _Not good_. For the umpteenth time, Bruce curses his rash decision. He should have waited and asked Selina. Selina would have aced this.

“So,” Smith says pointedly. “Mr. Kent. Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

Kent sucks in a sharp breath and doesn’t respond for a long, very long minute. “Mr. Smith. The truth is… the truth is,” he clears his throat, turns to look Bruce in the eye. His expression is the softest Bruce has ever seen, his sky-blue irises filled to the brim with gentleness. It feels a little like being punched in the gut. He takes everything he said about Kent’s acting skills back. “Bruce and I are just two people who weren’t meant to fall in love, but did.”

 

\--

 

“We couldn’t tell anyone because of the big promotion I have coming up.”

The utter _shock_ on Wayne’s face is the most beautiful thing Clark has _ever_ witnessed. He’s going to cherish this memory for the rest of his life.

“Your...?” Wayne mumbles.

Clark barely holds back a smirk. “We felt it would be deeply inappropriate if people knew we were,” he gestures between them, “involved, as I’m being promoted to editor.”

“ _Editor_ ,” Wayne chokes.

Smith is looking at them like they’re aliens. “I see,” he sighs. “And have you—have you told your parents about your _secret love_?” He says that last bit in an exaggerated cooing voice. Clark is going to lose it very soon.

“My parents are dead,” Wayne glares.

“Mmh. Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s been a long time,” Wayne shrugs magnanimously.

“What about you?” Smith asks Clark. “Are your parents dead too?”

“Oh no, no,” Wayne snorts before Clark can even open his mouth. “His are _very_ much alive.”

“Very much,” Clark repeats, amused.

“We were going to tell them this weekend, actually,” Wayne says. Clark’s eyes widen at that, and he snaps his head to the side. “It’s his mother’s birthday, so we’re heading down to Smallville to celebrate with his family.”

It’s delivered perfectly, with just the right amount of familiarity and ease. He told Wayne about the birthday party weeks ago, asked for the weekend off. It’s a busy time of the year, so it wasn’t a surprise when his request was denied, but it _is_ a surprise that Wayne remembers. Also, he’s fairly sure he never told his boss the name of his hometown.

“Smallville,” Smith echoes dubiously.

“It’s in Kansas,” Wayne leers. He looks annoyingly smug.

Smith twirls his fountain pen between his fingers, shaking his head in evident disapproval and disbelief. “That’s how you wanna play it. Okay. I will see you both on Monday eleven in the morning sharp for your first interviews, then. Your answers better match up.” He writes that down, hands the card to Clark. “I _will_ be checking up on you.”

“Thank you,” Wayne says, and then he’s up and checking his phone, leading the way outside. Clark waves awkwardly to Smith, mouthing a thank you before following him.

“Did you just invite yourself to my mother’s birthday celebration?” he asks once they’ve exited the building.

“Trust me,” Wayne grimaces, “Smallville, Kansas is not my scene. If you have a better alternative, I will take it.” He rearranges his lapel, sends one last text and puts his smartphone back into his pocket. “The car should be here any minute,” he informs Clark. “Congratulations on the promotion.” His gaze is steady, no sign of anger or any of the surprise he showed earlier. Clark decides to push his luck. He’s tired of the slow ache nested between his ribs. He’s tired of feeling deracinated.

“I want more than a promotion. You heard the man. 250 grand? I don’t have that kind of money.”

“I do,” Wayne says.

“Five years in prison, you’re gonna do time in my place too?” Wayne just looks away. “Yeah, didn’t think so. So here’s what’s going to happen. If we do this, when it’s over, I want to be back in Metropolis. As an editor.”

Wayne narrows his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“No,” Clark shakes his head. “You’re the boss. I want to go back to the Daily Planet. Promise me.”

“You have my word,” Wayne says after taking a deep, tired breath.

“Now, ask me nicely.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ask me nicely to marry you.”

Wayne reels back. _“Excuse me?”_ he says again.

“You heard me,” Clark grins. He shouldn’t be having this much fun. It’s payback for the year of _torture_ and for forcing him to leave his city, he tells himself. “On your knee.”

“You can’t be serious,” Wayne scoffs, and it’s funny how there’s a hint of a British accent when he loses some of his composure.

“Oh, I am _very_ serious.”

If looks could kill, Clark would be dead twice over. Wayne kneels with dignity after having inspected the pavement, a disgusted frown on his face. Clark takes a second to appreciate the momentary change in their power dynamic.

“Does this work for you?” Wayne inquires, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

“Oh yeah,” Clark chuckles, “I like this.”

Wayne’s cheeks turn a soft shade of pink. Clark wishes he could take a picture.

“This is ridiculous,” he grumbles. “Will you marry me?”

“No. Say it like you mean it.”

He expects a glare or an exasperated huff, but Wayne just takes a second to compose himself and then he _looks at Clark_. He looks at Clark like he’s never seen him before, like Clark is the center of his world and they are alone and not in a crowded street. There is a foreign tenderness to the way the corners of his mouth lift in a smile, and for a split-second Clark feels dizzy. It’s easy to forget Bruce Wayne is one of the most handsome men on this planet when you’re too busy hating him. “Clark,” he says in a deep voice, “My love. Would you make me the happiest man on earth and allow me to spend the next six months by your side as your husband?”

“Sure,” Clark says, a little weakly.

“Fantastic,” Wayne says, getting back up. His tone is back to flat and unenthusiastic. “Oh, look, the car is here.”

“I was going to just take the metro back to downtown Gotham,” Clark hesitates.

“Get in the goddamn car, Kent. We have things to discuss.”

 

\--

 

Clark is in a _private jet_. When he mentioned having to book tickets as they were discussing the modalities of their arrangement in Wayne’s Bentley after the USCIS meeting, Wayne just raised an eyebrow and said, “ _That won’t be necessary”_. He knew the man was rich—his family built a fortune in England before moving to the States, and even without that Wayne himself probably earns enough to warrant a private jet with Wayne Publishing alone—but it hadn’t computed just how _much_ exactly.

Wayne is flipping through a business report, absently biting the tip of a pen. Now that the plane is safely in the air he has unbuckled his seatbelt, and his comfortable leather seat is slightly reclined. He’s been ignoring Clark since they boarded.

“So,” Clark starts, because if he doesn’t talk he’s going to doze off and wake up in Kansas City, and that just won’t do. He points at the stack of paper he stapled together before leaving in the morning. “These are the questions INS is going to ask us. The good news is that I know literally everything about you.”

That makes Wayne put down what he’s reading and look at him mockingly. “I find that very hard to believe.”

Clark hands him the questionnaire. “Try me.”

“Let’s start you off easy,” Wayne smirks. “Do I have any allergies?”

“Peanuts,” he answers immediately. “And the full spectrum of human emotions.”

Surprisingly, Wayne’s smirk grows wider. “Funny,” he mutters under his breath. “Jesus,” he chews on his bottom lip, browsing through the questions, “Are people in _actual_ relationships supposed to know that much about each other’s medical history?”

“Good thing I’m the one who booked all your doctors appointment for the past twelve months,” Clark grins smugly. “Trust me, I read through this yesterday. There’s almost nothing on there I can’t answer. Oh, which makes me think. I’m pretty sure you have a tattoo.”

Wayne raises his eyes to meet Clark’s. His expression is unreadable. “You’re pretty sure.”

“Seven months ago your dermatologist called, asked about a Q-switched laser. I googled Q-switched lasers, found out that they remove tattoos.” Clark’s pretty proud of that one. Wayne definitely looks like he didn’t see it coming. In fact, he’s resolutely not saying anything. “But you cancelled your appointment,” Clark continues. “So, what is it? Tribal ink? Calligraphy? Barbed wire?”

“It’s personal,” Wayne says tensely.

“Well,” Clark says, and it comes out harsher than intended, “Our relationship is _personal_ , sweetheart. You’re going to have to tell me at least where it is. They’ll ask.” He can’t quite believe he just talked to his boss this way. He knows Wayne doesn’t really hold any kind of power over him anymore, not since he agreed to this, but it still feels dangerous and kind of wrong.

“Drop it,” Wayne says curtly, through gritted teeth. His hand is shaking on the armrest. Clark feels compelled to apologize, but he holds it in. Wayne put both of them in this shitty situation; he gets to deal with the shitty side-effects. That’s not on Clark. “Next question,” Wayne prompts after a long silence.

“You’re holding the list,” Clark points out.

“Oh,” he says, as if he had completely forgotten where they are and what they were doing. “Well. Are we staying at your place or mine? That’s easy, mine.”

“That’s _easy_?” Clark repeats, kind of offended.

“I live in a penthouse, Kent,” Wayne says slowly, as if he was explaining something to a child. “I have three sons and two of them live there with me. We’ll say you haven’t moved in yet because of Damian, but you stay over at mine’s often.”

“I guess it makes sense.”

“Of course it makes sense,” Wayne says icily, and Clark has a feeling this is payback for the tattoo stuff.

The rest of the flight is spent in silence, and Clark feels like he could cut through the atmosphere with a knife. They land in Kansas City, because there’s no airport closer to Smallville, and there’s an SUV waiting for them. Clark really wishes he were alone like he had planned. He missed the cornfields, the warmth of the sun on his skin, the smell of the air around him. He missed home. He wanted to be alone, have some time to think, to reacquaintance himself with his surroundings.

Instead he shoves their luggage into the trunk and slams it closed a little more aggressively than needed, and climbs onto the passenger seat. For someone who grew up with a chauffeur, Wayne sure insisted a lot on being the one to drive.

“When we get there,” Wayne says, eyes on the road, “You need to start calling me Bruce.”

“I know,” Clark rolls his eyes. “You don’t really think much of me, do you?”

“I specifically hired you and took you away from a job you were good at to be my executive assistant, Kent. You really believe I think you’re an imbecile?”

He _knows_ this is how it went down, he was there for it, but it still feels weird hearing it that clearly. He still doesn’t understand what Wayne saw in him he couldn’t find in someone else. Clark has always been careful not to be _too_ good. He was always a low-profile reporter, keeping the spotlight away. There was never a substantial reason to that, just Clark’s anxiety always lurking in the back of his head.

“I guess not,” he says, looking out the window. Watching the scenery flash quickly through the glass, he takes in the colors, the sounds. Saying he isn’t a city boy would be a lie—he fell in love with Metropolis early on, loves the feeling of freedom and independence that comes with an urban environment—but there is no place like home.

He falls asleep, rocked by the soft moving of the car, and Wayne— _Bruce_ —has to gently push him to wake him up.

“Clark,” he says as Clark rubs his eyes, and the way he says Clark’s first name always carries at least three layers of meaning Clark isn’t quite sure how to decipher yet. “Is this your parents’ farm?”

“Yeah,” Clark nods, his voice still a little rough from sleep.

The front door opens wide and Clark can see his Ma running towards them, a big smile on her face. She must have been waiting in the kitchen by the window, observing the road for hours as she busied herself with preparing food. The thought warms his heart and he shakes his head fondly. Pa is right behind her, walking at a more reasonable pace. He slides out of the car as she reaches it, right in time to hold out his arms and catch her as she _throws_ herself on him. He hugs her tightly, inhales the sweet familiar scent of her hair. He can feel her heart beat steadily against his.

“My baby boy,” she whispers into his chest.

“Don’t embarrass him, Martha,” Pa chuckles behind her. “How you doin’, buddy?”

“I’m good,” Clark grins, letting go of his mother so he can give his father a one-armed hug. Pa clasps his shoulder and lets go.

“That your boy?” he asks, taking a step back, giving Wayne—Bruce, goddamnit—a very obvious once-over.

“Hello,” Bruce greets them, almost timidly. He’s leaning against the car, as if he’s not sure he’s welcome any further than that.

Pa extends a hand and Bruce pushes himself off the SUV to shake it.

“So,” Pa begins, and Clark doesn’t need to see his smile shift to something almost vicious to realize where this is going, his father’s tone is enough. God, he hoped they would avoid this. Telling his parents over the phone he was dating the illustrious boss he hadn’t stopped groaning about for _months_ had gone as well as expected. “Do you prefer being called Bruce or Satan Himself?”

Bruce glances quickly at Clark, visibly speechless for a second.

“He’s kidding,” Clark says hastily. “Come on babe, you know I used to complain about you in the early days,” he adds with what he hopes is a harmfully teasing voice.

“Bruce is fine,” Bruce says finally. He gets his footing back in the blink of an eye. “Thank you so much for letting me be part of your weekend,” he tells Clark’s Ma swiftly.

“Oh sweetie,” she smiles cheerfully, “We’re thrilled to have you. But please, come on in, don’t stay under the sun like this, it’s almost noon. You city folks have no idea how bad it can get, you don’t want to catch a sunburn and ruin your weekend now, do you?”

“No,” Bruce chuckles softly, “I suppose I don’t.” He grabs both their suitcases and Clark’s laptop bag and refuses Clark’s help with a dismissive gesture; and they follow his parents inside.

 

\--

 

“So I told her,” Martha says, passing the casserole dish over to her husband, “There is no way in hell I’m not bringing a pie. It’s a bake sale, for goodness’ sake. I’m telling you, this woman feels threatened by me.”

“I understand her,” Clark mumbles, and Bruce has to hide that he’s smiling by taking another bite of his food. It’s delicious. Alfred is an excellent cook, but he never quite makes things like this.

“Clark Joseph Kent,” Martha scolds him. “That is no way of talkin’ about your mother.”

“I just meant that it’s hard to compete with your pie-making skills, Ma,” Clark protests, laughing. “Seriously,” he turns to Bruce, “Keep some room for dessert, her blueberry pie is _awesome_.”

He sounds so much younger. Looks so much younger, too, in his parents’ dining room, in the house he grew up in. He smiles all the time, that soft, big smile he used to wear when he was still working at the Daily Planet, that smile Bruce hasn’t seen since then.

“Yes, I believe you’ve mentioned that already,” he says, forces himself to sound fond. It’s not that big of a leap. Family gatherings always have this effect on him. “Martha, this is succulent,” he adds, pointing at his plate.

“Why thank you, dear. Do you want the recipe?”

“Bruce can’t cook,” Clark interjects. “He managed to burn cereal once.”

The worst part is, that actually happened. In his defense, he hadn’t slept in seventy-two hours and he was starving, and he had put the bowl in the microwave in his office before quite realizing what it was.

“Well, that reminds me of someone,” Martha smirks, and Bruce decides he definitely likes her.

Clark blushes. “Oh come on, I was never _that_ bad. I survived college _and_ living on my own in the adult world.”

“Living off instant noodles,” his father scoffs.

Clark elbows Bruce, playful. “You’re not going to defend me?”

“There’s not much to defend,” Bruce snorts. “Accept your defeat.”

“Betrayed,” Clark gasps dramatically, a hand over his heart. “In my own house, by my own people!”

His mother boops his nose and Clark makes a small insulted noise. It scares Bruce a little, how easy all this is, so far. The Kents are lovely, and now that he’s comfortable and at home Clark has slipped into the role of the good boyfriend with seemingly no difficulty at all. Bruce supposes it’s the whole being in his element thing.

“So,” Martha says, “Are you boys ready for the pie?”

Everyone around the table hums happily.

“Let me help you with this,” Bruce offers as she stands up and starts piling up dishes.

“Nuh-uh,” she shakes her head. “You’re the guest, sit down.” She brings everything to the sink and then goes to the fridge, takes out a homemade pie wrapped in baking paper and aluminum foil. It looks fantastic, the blueberries glistening, the crust golden and crisp. “Here you go,” she beams. In the background, the coffee she just put to brew is dripping slowly, its deep aroma imbuing the air.

Unsurprisingly, it’s as good as the rest of the food. Clark asks for seconds and his Ma rolls her eyes but serves him another slice, and then taps her husband on the back of his head when he does the same.

“You’re supposed to be watching your cholesterol, Jonathan,” she frowns.

“Oh come on, it has fruit,” the man laments.

“And sugar and butter,” she waves her spatula at him.

“Don’t ever get married,” he says faux-secretively to his son, and Bruce feels his stomach twist. Clark shoots him an uneasy glance. Jonathan catches it, and for a second it looks like he’s going to comment, but in the end he doesn’t. Martha puts the pie back in the fridge, and they all move to the living room with their coffee mugs.

“So tell us,” Jonathan asks, “What exactly do you do? Because Clark said you’re managing your company, but you also own it?”

“It’s a publishing house, not exactly a company,” Bruce explains. “But no, I do not manage it. I have a CEO and a CFO, that’s their job. Wayne Publishing _is_ mine, and I do oversee most major decisions. We own several news outlets and two publishers.”

“So how exactly did my son end up working directly under you?”

For the first time since they entered the house, Bruce senses actual animosity.

“I read a lot of his work when I was pondering buying the Daily Planet and expanding our market to Metropolis. I thought he was brilliant, obviously.” From the corner of his eye, he can see Clark redden. “I need smart people around me. A simple assistant won’t do, not when I have to juggle between Wayne Publishing and my duties as a philanthropist—”

“But he’s just a writer. No offense, son.”

“None taken,” Clark shrugs, but he’s starting to look uncomfortable. Maybe it’s just the fact his father is interrogating his “boyfriend”. His _fiancé_.

“I fail to see your point,” Bruce says cautiously.

Jonathan stares at him. “Why not someone with a degree in business or management?”

“What can I say,” Bruce jokes, hoping he can diffuse the sudden tension, “He caught my eye.” Clark looks like he’s searching for escape routes. “That came out terribly wrong,” Bruce says immediately. _Shit_. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“It’s okay, babe,” Clark says, putting a reassuring hand on Bruce’s knee. “What Bruce is trying to say is that his previous assistants were all people with degrees in these fields, and it didn’t work out. So he thought he’d try out someone from the humanities, and it worked.”

 _Smart boy_ , Bruce thinks appreciatively. Clark doesn’t remove his hand, and Bruce can feel it through the fabric of his slacks, burning.

“I’m glad,” Martha smiles gently. “Jon, let’s not tire them with your endless questioning,” she tells her husband pointedly. “You boys are probably exhausted after all that travelling. Do you want me to show you your room?”

It’s only seven in the evening, but it’s a Friday, which means Bruce has a whole week of work behind him, and his bones feel like dust. “That would be great,” he says thankfully. “Clark?”

“I’m ready whenever you are,” Clark shrugs.

“If you want to stay and catch up with your parents, you don’t have to turn in early for me.”

“Nah,” Clark shakes his head, pushing himself up from the sofa, “I’m feeling kind of beat, to be honest.”

“Perfect,” Martha claps her hands once.

“I’ll be in the barn,” Jonathan informs his wife, getting up too.

“This late?” Martha sighs.

“Yes,” he rolls his eyes, “This late. I told you, if I don’t fix this tractor we’re not going to get anything done this season.”

“ _Men_ ,” she huffs exasperatedly. Bruce would love to sympathize, but he doesn’t think it’s exactly his place. That doesn’t stop Martha from exchanging a knowing glance with him.

She leads them upstairs, opens the door to a nice cozy bedroom. It’s certainly not as big as any of the rooms at Bruce’s place, but it’s exactly the right size. It’s the kind of room Bruce imagines normal people with normal houses have.

“We remodeled the guest room not so long ago,” Martha announces proudly. “You’re the first to stay in the new version.”

“It’s beautiful,” Bruce says. It really is. There’s a big bed right under one of the two windows, a loveseat under the other one, bathing in sunlight even as the sun sets. He can see a door on the right he imagines leads to the bathroom, and there are flowers on the nightstands he guesses were handpicked from the fields outside. He stares at the bed for a long minute. _Your room_ , singular, Martha said. “Is Clark going to—?” he asks, motioning vaguely to the door.

“Oh, sweetie,” Martha tilts her head to the right, “We’re not naïve enough to think you two aren’t sharing a bed.”

Clark plops a hand onto his shoulder, almost making him jump. “That’s real nice, Ma. Everything looks great.”

“Great,” Bruce repeats, a little dumbfounded, his mind still stuck on the whole _sharing a bed_ part.

“Okay,” Martha gives one last inspecting look to their surroundings, “I think that’s all. I’m gonna let you two lovebirds rest. Goodnight baby,” she kisses her son on the cheek. “Goodnight, Bruce. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Bruce says, willing the strange lump in his throat to go away. “Goodnight.”

As soon as she’s out, Clark locks the door. “You can take the bed,” he tells Bruce, grabbing two pillows and quilt and throwing them on the floor in front of the bed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bruce snorts, “It’s big enough for two.”

“I’m fine,” Clark insists.

“Kent,” Bruce sighs. “ _Clark_. Don’t play the martyr, get in here.”

“Okay,” Clark says warily, gathering his stuff from the floor. “Thanks.”

“It’s your _house_ ,” Bruce says, “Jesus Christ. I’m not making you sleep on the floor.” He unzips his bag, grabs a shirt and jogging pants and his toothbrush. “I’m going to use the bathroom first, if that’s all right?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

It’s a nice little bathroom, all in terracotta tones. Bruce undresses rapidly and steps into the shower, breathes out in relief when the hot spray hits his body. His left shoulder is still sore from when he landed badly on it two days ago, an ugly bruise extending from his shoulder blade along his spine to his lower back. It’s turning greenish now, only a few purple blotches left. He’s glad he thought about bringing a long-sleeved shirt to sleep in. He’s nowhere near ready for Clark’s questions about what Bruce does in his spare time.

Getting _out_ of the shower feels like some sort of torture, but torture is kind of Bruce’s thing, lately. And by lately he means his entire life. He wraps himself in a fluffy white towel, dries his skin efficiently and slips into his change of clothes. As he brushes his teeth, he observes the man staring back at him in the mirror. His face looks tired and old. There’s some grey in his hair, and his bags under his eyes. He wonders what the Kents thought when they first saw him. That their son deserves better, probably. He has no trouble imagining what _better_ might look like. Lois Lane is a good example. A nice blond girl from Kansas City, even better maybe. Someone who doesn’t look like they just stepped out of a blender. Someone who isn’t just using Clark.

“Bathroom’s yours,” he informs Clark, opening the door and slipping out. “Which side of the bed do you prefer?”

Clark stares at him like he can’t quite believe Bruce is real. “I don’t care,” he laughs softly. “You choose.”

Bruce picks the left one, away from the wall, facing the door. Easier to escape, better vantage point. When he hears the shower running, he takes out his phone and calls Dick. He asked his eldest to step in for the weekend, drop by and pick up Damian, stay the night. Tim has too much on his plate with work already, and Tim is _young_ , no matter how early he graduated college and how impressive he is at a job no average twenty-year old should be able to hold. He shouldn’t be worried. They’re good boys, _his_ boys.

He still has to check up on them.

“ _Hey_ ,” Dick says happily when he picks up, his sunny smile distinctly hearable in his words. _“How’s the Midwest treating you?”_

“I am surviving,” Bruce admits begrudgingly.

“ _I’m translating this as_ I’m having a great time,” Dick jokes. “ _I know what you’re going to ask_ ,” he says right after, suddenly serious. “ _Don’t. We got everything under control._ ”

“I trust you,” Bruce says, because it feels important and like the sort of thing Dick would like to hear.

“ _Good_ ,” Dick hums. “ _Consider this a vacation_ ,” he orders. “ _Stop worrying. Don’t call me again._ ”

“I can’t promise that,” Bruce frowns.

“ _I know_ ,” Dick says fondly. “ _Try anyway. Goodnight, B._ ”

And then he hangs up on Bruce. So much for paternal respect.

Clark chooses that exact moment to get out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but soft flannel pants. And by nothing Bruce really does mean _nothing_ , because the way they hang low on his hips doesn’t leave much to imagination. There’s no way he’s wearing any underwear. Bruce lets his eyes roam higher to his naked torso. His skin is still damp from the shower, a drop of water running down his clavicle. Bruce has always known, objectively, that Clark was built like a brick; but he had never actually _seen_ the muscles or really paid any attention at all. Now it’s hard not to stare.

“Take a picture,” Clark teases, “It’ll last longer.”

“Sorry,” Bruce mutters. God, how long has it been since he last got laid?

“It’s okay,” Clark says magnanimously, “I tend to have this effect on people.”

It takes him a second to realize the other man is joking, and then Bruce is chortling, half-annoyed, half-impressed. “I hope you know you are a ridiculous person.”

“Yeah,” Clark grimaces, “I tend to also have _that_ effect on people.”

“Go to sleep, Kent,” Bruce huffs, as he moves around on the mattress until he finds a comfortable spot.

Clark turns on the small lamp on his nightstand and then turns off the ceiling lights. “Goodnight, Bruce,” he whispers.

 


End file.
